


Fleeting Memories

by Lidsworth



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, F/M, M/M, Memory Loss, rebirth in valinor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 01:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7665553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon is redeemed in Valinor with his memories as the Dark Lord wiped clean from his mind.</p><p>Now forced into the servitude of Eonwe, he interacts with those he tormented in Middle Earth, and for the life of him cannot figure out why he is being ignored or threatened by every single elf he comes upon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleeting Memories

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr request. please excuse my mistakes.

When Mairon reawakens in Valinor, there is a churning somewhere deep in his brain. It is an unusual sensation, and had Mairon not felt as if Aule’s entire workforce was clanging and banging on solid metal in his head, he would have very much liked to allow himself to dwell on such a harrowing experience.

But alas, the unpleasant drilling prevails.

And standing above him, rivaling even Varda’s glory, Eonwe does not help, as he radiates such blinding light that Marion’s stomach lurches forward. He is a pillar of white, body formless and branching around the room (a throne room it appears) like a thick spider web.

 _Spider web?_ The strange terminology is so alien to him. There is a flash of something unfamiliar, something rather dark and grotesquely large with legs that curl at its joints like dry, dead tree branches. There mere image of this monster—no matter how obscure and clouded the vision is—tickles the maia’s flesh in an unkind way.

Be this a vision or his foresight, Mairon is glad for its vagueness.

Weakened and disoriented, he wills himself to swallow the bile that practically crawls up his throat.

With the hope of alleviating the gnawing pain inside of his head, Mairon considers altering his form and changing into something less elvish and without such a sensitive nervous system.

Even with his head ablaze, concentrating on such a menial task should not prove difficult for him.

Though what was once as easy as melding iron has now become as hard as bending marble. He finds his body still that of a redheaded elf, aching and his vision victim to Eonwe’s light.

(And it so like his superior, to stare judgmentally at him as he withers in pain below him).

As if the situation itself was not strange enough, he has lost the ability to change?

Calm down, he whispers to himself to quell his nerves, and at this, the pillar of light tilts its head in curiosity, Steady your breathing. Try again.

Blaming such a simple mistake on his obvious fatigue, Mairon attempts to transform again.

Again, nothing happens.

Now his breathing comes shallow and quick. Despite his headache, he is very much—should be very much in control of his bodily functions. Yet here he still remains, laying on the floor of solid clouds with a splitting ache in his head, unable to change from this spotted redhead into a pillar of fire.

Now Eonwe comes to form. Standing above him is a man of tall height with pale skin and even paler hair. His milky eye bare down upon the fire maia, and his never changing expression is unreadable.  
(Something about the way he looks at Mairon angers him. It is almost as if he has been in the position before, and he does not like it).

In the midst of his fluid transformation, Mairon notices the lessening of pain in his head. Instead it is replaced with a sort of emptiness that he cannot explain or grasp. Like mist hovering above a barren, once vibrant land, he is left with a sense of nostalgia. Though for the life of him, remembering what has been lost is impossible.

If he has lost anything, that is.

Eonwe is not so visually assaulting now, and with his light dimmed to a reasonable brightness, Mairon can easily take in his surroundings. As he presumed, he is indeed inside of a large throne room. In fact the largest one in all of Valinor.

He lay before the high chairs of Manwe and Varda.  
  
Upon meeting their calm faces, Mairon gulps dryly. Despite their bland expressions, his presence here is certainly not a good thing.

Though not allowing himself to be intimidate by such a higher power, the Maia calms himself as much as he possibly can.

Mairon wonders though, what in all of Valinor has he done to be in such a predicament? Why are the Lords of Valinor staring at him as if he were a fire waiting to explode?

Had it something to do with that sorry excuse of a Vala? Melkor. That annoying oaf was always causing some sort of trouble.

  
Though scanning the area, he sees no sign of the Dark Vala. He does, however, notice the familiar faces of the others. Aule’s sticks out most of all, his tight lipped expression morphing into a frown. Yvanna, the second easiest to pick out, does not look much better than her husband.

Is that guilt Mairon sees?

“Hello Mairon.” It is Eonwe whom speaks above him, his warm voice betraying his cold personality.

Immediately the fire maia is drawn to him

Mairon has never liked him, and had this been any other unfortunate meeting between the two of them, he would have avoided speaking to Birdbrain at all cost.

Though with the entire court of Kings and Queens glaring down at him, he decides against his usual sarcasm and witty charm.

“Hello, Eonwe.”

  
“Do you remember anything? Anything at all? Do you know why you are here?”

  
“One question at a time please,” forgoing his situation, he can’t help but induce some of his wit, “Long story short, I don’t remember anything.”

“Long story short,” it is Manwe whom speaks from his throne (and seldom has Mairon heard him do so), adopting Mairon’s teasing tone, “You have suffered a tragic accident, and have thus been reborn into Valinor. Until further notice, you shall remain under the careful watch and servitude of Eonwe…”

Anything else that Manwe has to say falls deaf on Mairon’s ears. No doubt he speaks of his inability to change, along with any other restrictions that his rebirth due to his mysterious accident has brought with it. However, he can only process the fact that he is now a servant of Eonwe.

What in all of Valinor had he done to warrant such a punishment? Whom had he killed? How many had he killed? And where the hell was Melkor? Mairon didn’t know how, but this had something to do with that bastard!

Eonwe must feel rather proud of himself.

  
Though Mairon could understand why he would.  Despite his prudish and snobbish personality, Eonwe has never had it out for him in the past.

_But why does it feel like he does?_

Alongside that, he cannot seem to place a source for this irrational hate that he associates with Eonwe. Yes, he has always thought the maia to be a judgmental prick, but never anything to ignite such an awful sensation in his gut.

Suddenly the ache in his head returns, though only for a split second. However, the short time does little to lessen the pain. It’s nagging, repetitive almost. As if some trapped creature is clawing at the inside of his skull trying to break through.

Over and over again. 

  
And then it’s gone. And Mairon is left puzzled as the guards usher his limp body out of the throne room.

(Though he finds his hate for Eonwe a fleeting memory, yet for some reason, he fights to hold onto it)

* * *

Life as a servant of Eonwe is not as bad as Mairon thought it would be. Aside from the occasional glances, snide remarks and isolation he is subjected to from his coworkers (for what, he has no idea), he is left to his own devices, which usually consist of menial task given to him by Eonwe himself (cleaning floors, sorting papers, etc).

Over his long life, he has preferred solitude over working with others anyway. He likes to rely on himself and personally shoulder whatever burdens he must on his own. In this he prefers being alone, and the avoidance he faces from the other maia and elves that reside in Eonwe’s house does not bother him too much.

There are strict rules to abide by. He must not exercise his power. That includes shapeshifting, flying, fire power or and anything else that makes him remotely “maia” like. Those are easy enough to follow; even as a worker in Aule’s forge, he relied heavily on the tools and fire of the forge to craft his creations.

On the subject of forges, he is not allowed to step foot in Aule’s domain, nor is he to partake in any activities that require a forge until “further notice” (and this perhaps hurts in more ways than one).

He must not speak of Melkor—who is now Morgoth—to any elf or maia that he encounters. Any memories in regards to Melkor must be reported to Eonwe (that’s another thing. These are _memories_ being repressed, a past that he is being kept from). Not that this is an issue any. His hearing and sentence had seen the last of his memories or thoughts revolving around Melkor.

Not to mention, the mere thought of his name splits his head into two.

The fool was a nuisance in the forge anyway and the maia wants little to do with him or his memory. What Melkor has to do with Mairon, he hasn’t a clue, and for whatever reason, he is glad to be parted from him.

Sometimes though, these hellish dreams plague him. And he swears on his immortal life that he finds himself ensnared in dark, charred claws. And while he cannot for the life of him pin a face to the hands, a whisper echoes softly, “Melkor” in the back of his mind.

He usually wakes in the morning wracked in sweat, head positively pulsating, the sheer agony causing him to scream into his pillow.

The urge to swallow his pride and ask for help and guidance has befallen him more than once. He has even toyed with the idea of seeking the counsel of Eonwe, but regards these dreams as nothing more than nightmares (and a small part of his soul yearns for the dreams, no matter how horrifying they are. He doesn’t know why).

On some rare occasions, however, he is blessed with warm blue eyes that dance behind his lids, ghostly touches on his arms that cause his heart to ache for the real thing, and dark hair that fans like fire on the pillow beneath him. On these nights, he welcomes sleep, yet braces for morning when his hands will be stained red with the blood of his elvish lover. What became of the elf, he isn’t certain. But the fact that his dreams ends in blood—the blood of his love—terrifies him.

And his love, he knows not, but he is for certain that he is of the physical world and not a figment of the imagination. He has never met this elf before—or at least he does not remember him. He chooses to believe the latter, for at times the name hangs on the tip of his tongue, balances on his lips like a small drop of water on the edge of a smooth leaf, trembling in the wind as all forces of nature work to see it splattered on the ground and forgotten (much like the astral blood that clings to Mairon’s hands when he wakes).

And as the water falls, so goes the ghost of a name.

He has asked for counseling from the wise elves and maia in Eonwe’s house (and has been rejected, of course), because after months and months of fighting this battle alone, the memory of this elf tears into his soul and he is suddenly made aware of how lonely he is. How cold the spot in his bed feels beside him, how naked his arms are without another’s hooked at the elbows, how empty his heart feels without the love and affection of his elf.

Then suddenly one day, after the tears rolling off his nose and ‘plopping’ onto the wet floor outnumber the dirty drops in his bucket, he remembers.

 He _needs_ him. He needs Celebrimbor.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Despite his sentence, he is granted jurisdiction anywhere in Valinor under the condition that he causes no trouble (like that would be an issue) and finishes his work on time. Very seldom does he exercise this privilege though, due to the snide comments and dark glares usually cast his way. Not to mention, the citizen of Valinor go out of their way to avoid him, and already, this involuntary seclusion has proven most difficult to deal with.

What he has done to deserve such rudeness, he isn’t certain. Though he supposes it has much to do with this pasts of his. And the need to find someone who can perhaps understand him—someone with a sense of familiarity—sees him tensely walking through the streets of Tirion, searching for the House of Feanor where he’ll no doubt find the elf he’s dreamed about for days.

 

Today is no different than the other few days in which he has dared ventured into the city. He keeps his head tucked down below his hunched shoulders and buries his hands as deep into his pockets as they can possible go. Anything to make his usually loud, haughty self as tiny as possible.

It’s amazing what occasional solidarity and harsh words can do to someone who was once as mighty and confident as Mairon. Oh goodness, he hopes he wasn’t _too_ awful in his past, and prays to whoever is listening that Celebrimbor has some answers to his questions.

                                                                        OoooooO

The House of Feanor is quieter than Mairon remembers it being. Even isolated from the main castle itself in Feanor’s anger, the constant bicker of children and visiting cousins usually made this large home the busiest spot in all of Tirion.

It used to be a homey building; tall and wide, as would be the house of any prince, no matter how far he sought to isolate himself from his father, carved of strong brick and topped with a bright red roof. It was more of a fortress than anything, as was customary of all Eldar homes, though it lacked the cold and uninviting air that the other ones tended to protrude. 

It is like an old memory plays in his mind as he stares at the seemingly vacant house.

The few times Mairon had delivered materials here, he had truly loved it; loved the smells, the laughter, and even the large dog that tried to steal whatever food Neradnel had offered him. At times, even Prince Feanor himself drew Mairon aside, and asked for his opinions on his newest creation.

More than often he had stumbled over one of the children—many of which he could not tell if they belonged to Feanor or one of his brothers.

As he tries to name them all, the laughter fades, and ghost of children evaporate into the presently cracked, rotting home.

He is suddenly aware that whatever joy that had beheld this house had fallen forgotten into the past. 

The lawn is overgrown, and the brick has faded into a rather greyish, greenish color. Large ivy wedges in between the cracks, bursting into the stone and splitting it in half.

What a sorry fate to have befallen such a jovial place, Mairon thinks.

And then, the oddest thing happens.

From around the corner, seemingly out of nowhere, emerges two elves. As usual the gender is too hard to tell from a distance, and the fact that they both wear identical pants, hats and gloves makes it almost impossible to discern them.

As they get closer, he can pick out small things about them. There is a striking height difference, and Mairon assumes the dark haired elf to be male, as opposed to his shorter counterpart, whose hair is long and silver.

From their attire, it is obvious that they are tending to the untamable yard, something they should have done ages ago.

The tall elf begins by viciously attacking the ivy that has grown into the house, and by his movements and accuracy despite the large hat casting a shadow over his face, Mairon deduces that he is, or was a warrior of some sort. This conclusion is further supported by the fact that his toned arms gleam in the sunlight, and as shinning sweat begins to accumulate on his skin, it highlights the muscular curves of his skin.

The elf beside him is quite dainty. She doesn’t spent her time angrily ripping vines from the house. Instead she gets to work on the explosion of a lawn, kneeling down and tearing away at weeds and flowers alike.

Occasionally she removes her hat and uses the back of her arm to rub the sweat of off her silver brow, then turns to the lawn to survey the progress she has made and nods to herself as the hint of a sidewalk becomes more apparent. Quite frequently she cast a glance over her shoulder to see what progress the other elf has made (he will need a ladder soon).

As she prepares to dip her head down again and resume her weeding, her eyes catch the hunched figure of Mairon that stands a distance away from the home.

Standing slowly to full height, she turns to the elf behind her and speaks, then returns her gaze to Mairon. Hesitantly, she raises a hand in a semi-welcoming gesture, fingers curled slightly and wave rather tense. After a while, Mairon returns the greeting in the same manner. 

Both elves look quizzically at each other now, as if they find gesture somewhat odd and alien despite doing so themselves (elves do not greet each other like that).

It isn’t before long that the couple crosses the lawn, with great difficult, to greet him properly.

Now feet away from them, he can make out traits. The woman is defiantly of teleri blood, with her fay looks and her silver hair. The man is most likely Noldor, and if Mairon’s senses prove him correct, he has a small bit of maia blood within him.

Just as Mairon makes to ask them who they are, they beat him to it.

“Hello, my name is Lady Celebrian,” introduces the smaller elf with an extended hand, “and this is Lord Elrond.”

The names feel familiar, and perhaps he would have dwelled on the dull throbbing in his brain that they caused, had the presence of a Lord and Lady knee deep in weeds and dirt not momentarily stunned him. What on earth were a Lord and Lady doing in such awful conditions? Should they not be in a mansion or in a castle being waited on by their servants? And what were they doing here?

His expression must be quizzical, for the two elves look at one another in amusement.

Seeing as he neither speaks nor makes to return the hand shake, Elrond continues the conversation, “We are kin of the Lady Nerdanel, and tend to her gardens when we have the opportunity to.”

 All Mairon can do is nod and feign his understanding, for there should be no reason why royalty is working in Nerdanel’s yard. Can she not hire servants or professionals to come to this place?

Slowly he takes Celebrian’s gloved hand, and shakes it lightly.

“You are from Middle Earth then?” Elrond observes,  “That greeting is not one of the elves, it is one of Men.  Tell me, friend, what do you call yourself?”

“Mairon, my name is Mairon. And I have never been to middle earth before,” Mairon admits to the best of his abilities, “or at least I don’t remember.”

At this Celebrian smiles sadly and her hand falls to her side, “Perhaps you were reborn and the trauma of your life has remained hidden to you for now. It happened to cousin Celebrimbor.”  
  
Elrond places a hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing it for support. Sorrow covers her face like the shadow that hangs from her wide brimmed hat. Mairon’s heart clenches. Certainly she is familiar with whatever pain Celebrimbor has suffered, and it hurts Mairon to know that his love was tormented in his life.

“You are correct, my memories are fleeting,” Mairon admits again, “And I am looking for Celebrimbor, he is a figment of my past that I remember.  Do you think you could help me find him?”

The joy seems to return to her face immediately, and she lights up like a beacon, “Yes, of course! He is so lonely with his family still in the Halls of Mandos, and his grandmother always locked away in her workshop. We just returned actually from one of our travels, so he should be in his forge” Celebrian takes his wrist in her own and leads him through the jungle of weeds.

Elrond trails behind them, minding his step as he does so.

“He will be glad to see you,” she beams, “And I’m sure you’ll be allowed to stay for dinner. We can all talk, Elrond, Celebrimbor you and I. Perhaps even Nerdanel will leave her workshop to join us. It will be great to have some laughter in the house again!”

More eager than ever, he increases his stride and nearly runs her over, almost tripping as he stops himself from stepping on her heals. “Easy now Mairon! He is going nowhere!” She giggles as she helps him up, “See now, there is his forge.”

 Mairon stumbles forward, straightening his torn clothing and dusty pants as soon as he comes to a halt before the door of the forge.

“I told you Elrond, you should have waited until I found the ladder, not…”

Bright blue eyes emerge from the darkness of the forge, followed by even darker hair and rather dull, pasty pale face. He looks old, yet young at the same time, as if he has seen _too_ much. So much so that not even Valinor has healed his tired soul.

Despite this, Mairon smiles. Finally his search is over.  He has found his love. 

“Celebrimbor….” He breaths in relief, extending a hand to cup the elf’s face, “How I have—“  


His wrist our caught immediately, and Mairon’s heart drops at the look of pure anger on Celebrimbor’s face.

“Do not touch me, Annatar,” spits the elf, eyes ablaze with fury, “Do not touch me.”

 _Annatar?_ In the midst of this heartbreak, Mairon ponders on the relic, _why does which sound so familiar?_

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it.  
> If you're confused about Elrond and Celebrian being with the Feanorians, Maglor raised Elrond, so it's not farfetched that he would seek out Nerdanel in Valinor. I think Celebrian and Celebrimbor bonded over their torment and could understand one another, so they are always close friends in my hc. 
> 
> please let me know what you think. please! open for critique as always!


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